


Housekeeping

by BlueNeutrino



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: When a contract for a griffin leaves Geralt severely wounded, he finds himself recovering in a Temerian inn under the watchful eye of the innkeeper's precocious young daughter.





	1. The Maid

Three sharp knocks sound as the maid raps her knuckles on the guest room door. "Housekeeping!"

There's a pause in which she tilts her head closer to listen, though with noon already past, she isn't expecting a response. _One, two, three_ , she counts in her head, giving ample time for a reply, then after five seconds of silence, she pulls back and gets to work. She gathers the broom from where she's left it propped against the wall, hefts the laundry basket on her hip, and lets herself in with the master key.

The room is dark on the other side. It's not entirely a surprise, when plenty of the guests leave the shutters closed to keep in the heat, but her job isn't one she much cares to do by candlelight. Sighing, she sets down the laundry basket to prop the door open - which insists on swinging closed no matter how far she pushes it - then leaves the broom against the wall again as she makes her way towards the windows.

Not much light gets in from the hallway. The maid squints, trying to assess the state of the room through the dimness as she watches her step on the uneven floorboards. Thankfully, it doesn't appear to be a wreck. The floor's mostly clear and the bed's unmade with a pile of blankets bundled up on the far side, but that's perfectly manageable. There's a strange smell lingering in the air, but it's neither alcohol, piss nor vomit, so she's more than content to deal with that. A considerate enough guest, she concludes, stepping round to the far side of the bed and sliding down the latch on the shutters to push them open.

Light spills into the room. The girl blinks twice, letting her eyes adjust, then turns back to face the bed. Suddenly, she starts. An involuntarily yelp leaves her throat as her eyes come to rest on what she thought had been a pile of blankets bundled on the mattress. Someone's still here.

On the left side of the bed, closest to the window, a man is lying on his side. One arm is trapped under him while the other dangles down over the edge of the mattress, fingertips stopping just inches from where a small, empty glass bottle is lying atop the floorboards. Her eyes wander, widening as they take in the assorted items lying beside it: more of the glass vials, empty, with a faint smell unlike anything she recognises; bloodstained bandages, soaked through, discarded. His clothes are in a heap near to the foot of the bed, metal glinting where she recognises armour, while by his head, within arm's reach, is a sword.

A second one. She can already see the hilt of another poking out from underneath his gambeson.

Fear begins to rise in her chest as her eyes dart for the door. She stutters, tongue fumbling for words of apology until she realises he's still sound asleep. The shaft of light falling across his face doesn't appear to have disturbed him any more than her clunking footsteps. For a moment, the maid hesitates. She could still leave, close the shutters again and come back later, or not at all. But he's unconscious, and she's curious, and the bandages strewn on the floor have sparked a different kind of anxiety. She takes a nervous step closer.

The man still doesn't move. Her eyes roam across the skin exposed above the blankets, gasping softly as she takes in the wicked scars marring almost every inch of it. Fair hair - more than fair, _white_ \- splays across the pillow, tendrils having escaped the band holding it back from his face.

There's a dark stain on the sheets where they rest covering his hip and along his outer thigh, the reddish brown of dried blood. The maid swallows. From his stillness, the paleness of his skin, it's hard to keep from wondering if he's dead.

"Sir?" she murmurs, only half hoping he'll respond as she leans in closer. Her gaze pans down to his chest, partly obscured by the arm crossed over it, and tries to look for movement. It's impossible to tell if he's breathing or not.

"Sir, are you alright?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper while she's simultaneously trying to elicit a response. The contradiction hasn't escaped her. It takes a few seconds for the girl to steel herself before she dares reach out a hand to hold in front of his face, unnervingly close, and feels for breath. _One, two, three_ , again she counts, and isn't sure if she can feel anything or not.

Stomach doing backflips, her eyes pan down the rest of his body. Apart from the blood clinging to his leg - and there doesn't seem to be too much of it - she can't see any obvious signs of injury. Not that she thinks she'd even dare look closer.

The bloody bandages on the floor, though, _do_ seem to be drenched. Biting her lip, the girl moves her fingers a few inches lower under his jaw to touch the side of his throat. She's tentative, lacking the nerve to press harder, until she tells herself that if a pulse is there, she'll never feel it holding back like this. She takes a breath and digs her fingers in against the artery.

The next part happens in an instant. A tight grip closes around her wrist before she even realises what's happening, prompting a sharp intake of breath as her eyes fly to his face. His eyes are open, irises an eerie yellow, glinting and fierce as they fix on her. His gaze roots her to the spot as much as the hand painfully grasping her arm. She trembles, breathing turning ragged as she meets his accusatory glare.

"I...I'm sorry… I didn't mean..." She fumbles to get the words out.

There's confusion on his face as those strange eyes - unearthly, cat-like - dart to his surroundings, then the tension seeps from his brow as he remembers where he is. His grip goes slack, abruptly letting her go. "What do you want?"

His voice is hoarse. Raspy. His head sinks back into the pillow, hostility mostly gone, though she feels another rush of nerves as she thinks he still seems irritated. "I'm just the maid," she stammers, unconsciously clutching her freed arm to her chest. "I'm here to clean the room."

"You usually disturb the guests for that?"

"No, I...didn't realise you were here at first. Then when I saw the bandages on the floor, I got worried."

He blinks, then his gaze wanders towards the bandages in question, as if only just remembering how they got there. His expression softens. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Her heart rate is only just beginning to slow. "My fault. Shouldn't have startled you." The trembling in her limbs is slowly coming back under her control, though she's sure she still seems terrified. Even without the full intensity of his glare, those eyes are frightening.

He keeps his gaze fixed on her another few seconds, then heaves a sigh and shifts himself to sit up straighter in the bed. "Forget about maid service, I don't need…" he starts to say, then it gets cut off in a hiss of pain as a grimace contorts his face.

Her blue eyes widen. "You're hurt," she says, her gaze flitting down towards his leg. A fresh bloodstain is just beginning to creep through the blankets.

"Not badly." It takes him just a heartbeat too long to reply, the look on his face sheepish. His words don't convince either of them.

There's a beat in which the girl glances from the blood to his face, then she takes a breath. She's decided to be bold. "My Ma used to be a nurse for the soldiers, when the war came through here. I was her helper. I could take a look at it for you?"

That gets a surprised blink and, to her annoyance, a dismissive look. "Your mother around?"

"No. She passed last summer."

For a moment, he looks apologetic, then he grits his teeth and gives a pained huff. She can tell he isn't taking her seriously.

"I know I'm not as good as a proper medic, but I can help."

That draws another dubious glance. "How old are you?"

"Eleven."

His silence in the wake of that says it all. "Your father still alive?" he asks after a beat.

"Yeah."

"What would he say if he knew you were here?"

"He owns the inn. He'd want me to help the guests."

The scowl she gets in response tells her that wasn't the reply he'd wanted. "I'm sure you have other guests to be helping."

"Yes, but if my Ma were here, she'd say you need it most."

He just stares at her. She wonders if he's really annoyed with her, or just in pain.

With him sitting up, it's easier to get a good look at him. Even more scars criss-cross the skin of his torso, looking to her like what could be claw marks, or burns, or stab wounds, or anything, really. There's enough variety that she thinks he might have suffered every injury her imagination cares to conjure up, and that shocks her even more than the evident size of the weeping wound in his leg.

Yet another scar cuts vertically across his left eye and curves down across his cheek. It's not quite enough to detract from an otherwise handsome face, but it lends his expression an even more dark, menacing air than it already has. Around his neck is a silver chain, on it a medallion in the shape of a wolf's head resting atop his breast.

She's still captivated by his eyes, unsettling though they are with their yellow intensity turned towards her. She recalls the swords, the potion bottles on the floor, the plethora of scars carved into his skin, and all the pieces start to fall into place.

"You're a witcher, aren't you?" she says.

The reply is an irritable, monosyllabic grunt. "Yes."

"What's your name?"

He shoots her a scowl. "What's yours?"

"Annette."

The willingness with which she answers seems to take him by surprise. A beat passes, his eyes still narrowed, then he relents. "Geralt of Rivia."

 _Geralt_. She thinks she knows the name from somewhere.

The witcher's own eyes flit towards the bloodstain seeping through the sheets. She can tell he wants to inspect the damage, but there's a reluctance with her here.

Annette steps back, crosses round to the other side of the bed, then just as he seems to think she's heading for the door, she turns and climbs up onto the mattress beside him.

His eyes widen in surprise. A defensive hand curls into the sheets, expression darkening to a scowl as he instinctively recoils. "Don't you have other rooms to clean?"

"I told you, I want to help." She stares at him earnestly. "Please. Let me take a look."

He returns the gaze, deliberating, then decides he doesn't want to expend the energy of arguing. "Alright," he relents. "You can look. Just don't do anything." His fingers clutch at the sheets, then, carefully, begin to peel it back from the wound, triggering a fresh surge of bleeding as half-formed scabs break off.

He arranges the sheets modestly, sliding the fabric between his legs, and it suddenly dawns on her he's naked beneath the covers. A blush begins to creep across her cheeks, but the embarrassment is quickly replaced by nausea as she takes in the sight of the wound.

Half of the skin covering his hip and upper thigh is missing. It's been savagely torn away, leaving the tender flesh beneath exposed in a deep, ragged line along his outer leg, at his hip gouged down almost to the bone. The blood at the outermost layer appears to have formed a fragile clot, but it's been all too easily disturbed and ripped open again. Yellowish plasma seeps from the wound, mingling with the dark red ooze of blood. It smells foul.

Just the sight of it fills her with nausea. He doesn't miss her reaction, the way she holds her breath to keep from gagging. He glances over, raises an eyebrow. "You gonna leave now?"

The thought crosses her mind. But, stubborn as ever, she shakes her head. "No." She gulps, takes a calming breath as she forces herself to look. "What did that?"

Geralt grimaces, gives the answer as a pained grunt. "Griffin."

"It looks bad. I really think you need a doctor."

"Could be worse. Could have broken the bone, too." For her sake, he tries to play it off as not as bad as it seems, but he really doesn't make the case sound convincing.

"How do you know it's not broken?"

"If it was broken, I'd still be lying out there in the meadow bleeding to death."

"So you're just gonna bleed to death in my Pa's inn instead?"

That gets another grimace, this time seeming fueled more by anxiety than pain. "I'm a witcher. Already took a few healing potions. I've recovered from worse."

She eyeballs the wound again, getting used to the sight of it. Green pus is starting to seep from beneath the blood crusting below his hip. "It's infected," she remarks.

The look on his face tells her he already knows.

Annette swallows. "There's garlic in the kitchens. I could make a salve…"

Geralt shakes his head, and she can see the tendons in his neck stand out as he clenches his jaw in pain. “Wouldn't hurt, but I need tincture of calendula."

"Calendula?"

"Marigold. It's antiseptic, promotes healing."

She purses her lips. "Doesn't grow round here. There's a herbalist the other side of the village. I could go see if she has anything to help you?"

"And how much would that cost me?"

Annette shrugs. "Part of the service."

It takes him a little by surprise. Geralt studies her face, all wide-eyed innocence and an earnest desire to help. He doesn't want to take advantage, but he also really, really doesn't want to lose his leg. "Alright," he agrees. "Check down there by my things. There should be a coin purse. Take thirty crowns and see if the herbalist will make a calendula tincture. Failing that, burdock should help with the infection, at least. If there's any change, it's yours."

There's a clinking as Annette counts out the coin, then she frowns down at the pile of his bloodstained clothes. "I could take these to the laundry for you, too. They're filthy."

It's touching, really, how much she's willing to help. But also getting a little annoying. "Leave them," he says gruffly. "I have spares."

"What if I said it was on the house too?"

"Would your father approve of you offering all this for free?"

"No," she replies, and her smirk is that of a child caught up in the thrill of doing something forbidden. "So don't tell him."

Geralt won't say a word.

She hefts up the pile of clothes and dumps them in her laundry hamper, then looks more closely at the ragged, bloodsoaked trousers. The hole ripped down the right leg is huge. "I could see about getting these repaired for you too?"

He gives her a dry look. "I think they're a lost cause."

As much as she wants to impress him with her helpfulness, she knows he's right. Shrugging, Annette dumps the trousers back into the hamper, thinking maybe they'll at least have some use as rags, then shuffles towards the door.

"I'll go to the herbalist when I can get away," she says, propping it open with her foot. "Might not be till late, but in the meantime I can try and find some fresh bandages, and I'll bring you water."

"I'd prefer wine."

"Wine, you have to pay for."

He blinks, and she chuckles at the look on his face. "Can't have everything for free, witcher."

Geralt just mumbles indistinctly, then lets his head sink back into the pillow.


	2. The Witcher

_Fourteen hours earlier_

Almost all sensation in Geralt's lower leg has gone by the time he makes it back to the tavern. Walking feels like dragging somebody else's limb along the ground, a numb dead weight that might give out and send him crashing to the floor at any moment. Above the knee, however, he's all too aware of the searing pain radiating from the hole gouged in his thigh.

The edges of the wound are held together by the rag he's tied tight around it, and even that is losing tension as blood continues to seep out and drench the fabric red. At his hip, the bunched up remnants of his shirtsleeve have turned a slick crimson as he keeps the pressure on as hard as he's able. The pain's so bad he's fighting the urge to throw up.

People are still drinking as he limps in through the heavy wooden door that forms the entrance. A lot of people, and a good fraction of them already drunk. There are raised voices, aggressive, and it seems likely that a brawl is about to break out. As long as it doesn't involve Geralt, that suits him just fine.

Nobody seems to give a damn about the bleeding man who's just staggered in, either too preoccupied to even notice or apathetic enough to decide it's not their business. Geralt gets as far as the stairwell without anyone commenting on the trail of blood he's smearing on the floor, then he stares up at the climb he has to make, and groans. His witcher's stamina is the only thing that allows him to manage it. By the time he gets to the top, the edges of his vision are turning black and he's breathing through clenched teeth. Unconsciousness threatens to take him as he stumbles to his room and struggles to get the key in the lock, aim thrown off by his trembling hands. If he drops it, he thinks he'll just pass out on the floor.

That doesn't prove necessary before the lock clicks and the door swings open, then Geralt half-crawls inside. He makes it as far as the foot of the bed before the heavy door creaks on its hinges and succeeds in swinging closed again. There's a thud as it slams into its frame, the latch drops, and then the room is plunged into total darkness.

Geralt throws out his hands, and falls to the floor.

Now he can barely tell what's his failing vision and what's just the darkness. The pain is excruciating, and unconsciousness seems like the perfect retreat, but he knows that he can't afford to pass out. If he doesn't get the bleeding under control, sleeping now means never waking up.

"Get up," he murmurs to himself, and it doesn't quite have the motivational clout he'd hoped for. Instead, he imagines Yennefer's voice. " _Don't make me come to this scummy little tavern to retrieve your body, witcher_ ," and, somehow, he gets to his knees and drags himself towards the travel chest beneath the window.

He's entirely reliant on his mutations to see in the dark, but with his head spinning from the blood loss, even that's proving difficult. He gets the chest open and fumbles through the contents for whatever potions or decoctions he has already prepared. A spare shirt—his last good one, now—gets tossed to one side so that he can get to the rags serving as bandages beneath, then he finally snatches up a vial of White Raffard from the bottom and quickly gulps it down.

It barely takes the edge off the pain, but it helps clear his head. The decoction carries him through the next few minutes as he sheds his armour and peels away the remnants of his clothing from the wound, then tries to tie a fresh bandage around it. His attempts are clumsy. Poorly bound, the strip of fabric rapidly soaks through and comes loose, before Geralt snatches it away and flings it to the floor in frustration.

 _What a mess_ , he thinks. _This whole thing is a fucking mess._

It had been one stupid mistake that had landed him here. An ill-timed feint, one misjudged step, and the griffin's talons had raked across his abdomen in a move that would have disemboweled him had it not been for his mail. Instead, its claws managed to angle so as to find his hip, sinking in down to the bone, and Geralt had screamed. The griffin flapped its wings, snapped its beak, then the whole thing became one messy, bloody struggle as the witcher hacked at the beast's neck while it came perilously close to tearing into his.

Geralt thinks it had been as desperate to get away from his sword as he was from its claws. Most of the damage had been done as it tried to pull back, but its talons had tangled in his belt, gotten trapped, and the only thing that had freed it was a final wrench that took his potions pack and a good chunk of flesh with it. It was only blind luck and a rush of adrenaline that had allowed Geralt to bury his silver blade in its neck not moments after.

Gritting his teeth, the witcher reaches for another strip of fabric to try again. The part of the wound on his thigh, he manages to get a crude bandage around, but the gaping, fleshy canyon in his hip is almost impossible to deal with. His fingers and the dressing are soon soaked through once again and he has to start over. Lying on his side, Geralt reaches over the edge of the bed for a vial of Swallow, pops the cork out, and knocks it back.

The nausea is quickly getting to him. He just needs to give this one more go…

The next attempt at a dressing fares a little better than the last. For twenty minutes he's able to lie there, gradually unclenching his jaw as the pain dulls, until he again begins to feel the hot, sticky trickle of blood between his legs and the bandage turns to a useless, sodden rag. Short of tearing up his one remaining shirt, that's the last he has.

By now, the combination of potions should be deep in his system. Too lethargic to move, Geralt continues to lie still while he waits for them to take effect. His chest shudders with each breath, nausea gripping him as the worst of the pain seems to come in waves. The wound throbs in time with his pulse, while below it, sensation starts to return in the form of an uncomfortable tingling. Gradually, the flow of blood stems from a gush to a trickle, then from a trickle to an ooze, until finally, Geralt feels the fragile crusting of a clot beginning to form.

It's stopped. He's not going to bleed out.

Relief sweeps over him as he draws a deep, laboured breath. He's not out of the woods yet, but at least the immediate danger has passed, and that's enough for him to sleep on. A shiver runs through the witcher's body, and it occurs to him that he's cold.

Clumsily, Geralt flings a hand behind him in search of the dishevelled sheets and does his best to shuffle them out from under him. His movements lack a witcher's usual co-ordination as he pulls them crudely over his naked body, then the same hand goes for the remaining potion vials beside the bed: Swallow and White Raffard, one of each.

He doesn't know how long it's been since his last dose, but it certainly feels like long enough. Geralt brings each potion vial to his lips and drinks.

Exhaustion has dulled the pain considerably by now, or that could be the effect of the potions taking root, but he doesn't intend to stay awake long enough to find out. The last bottle slips from his fingers just as his head hits the pillow, and consciousness slips away.

* * *

 

_Now_

"Nettie, where do you think you're going?"

Annette jumps, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders as she turns to glance back at her father's displeased face. She still has one hand on the door, and sheepishly removes it. "I'm running an errand for a guest," she explains, then glances guiltily down as his expression darkens further. "I, uh...I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You can tell him it's not part of the service," her father barks gruffly. "It's nearly dusk. Travelers will be stopping soon. I need you in the kitchen."

"Pa, I need to go to the herbalist before she closes shop. It's important."

The man's eyes narrow. "Why?"

"The man in room four. He's hurt. Badly."

"Room four?" There's a beat, an expression of confusion passing over his face, then he remembers. "Ah. The witcher."

"Pa, he gave me the money..."

"I don't care. I'll not have you running errands for no mutant," her father says firmly, and there's a flicker of what she thinks is fear on his face. "It's dangerous, Nettie. Now get back to the kitchen and don't you worry anymore about any witchers. I'll see to it that he's gone tomorrow."

That ignites a spark of panic in her chest. "Pa, please. I really think he might die if he doesn't get help."

"That's not your problem."

"It will be my problem if I'm the one who has to clean the room with his body in it. Yours too."

There's a pause as he studies her face, round, ruddy cheeks and a stubborn clench to her jaw much like his own, and a tender compassion in her eyes very much not. He sighs. "You're a bleeding heart, just like yer ma," he says. "Alright. Go. But I need you up and ready at dawn tomorrow."

Annette nods fervently. "Yes, Pa," she promises, then turns and hurries off out the door before he changes his mind.


	3. The Night

"Geralt, I have the tincture."

There's no reply as Annette lets herself back into his room. That immediately sets alarm bells ringing in her head, and the floorboards creak as she hurries to him just that bit faster, fear clenching in her chest. She can hear him breathing, but it's far from a reassurance. The sound is strained. Agonal.

"Geralt?" An edge of panic creeps into her voice as she crosses to the far side of the bed by the window. The light is fading and she needs to light a candle, but there's still enough for her to see the dark circles under his eyes, the uneasy part of his lips as he strains to draw breath. Annette swallows.

He seems to have sensed she's there, eyelids fluttering as he tries to bring her into focus. When he speaks, his voice trembles. "Ciri?"

"No," she answers nervously, and wonders who he means. "It's Annette." When she reaches out to touch him, his skin burns beneath her fingers.

Steeling herself for the worst, Annette grasps the sheets and pulls them back from the wound. He's made another attempt at a dressing with the bandages she brought up earlier, but already she can smell the rotten, septic stink of it. Red mingles with yellow and green as blood and pus soak the fabric. Annette holds her breath, then pulls the soiled rag away.

It's all she can do not to retch as the wound is exposed to the air, but her disgusted grimace quickly turns to a look of dread as she knows without a doubt the wound has turned septic. Thick green pus oozes out from the crevice between the severed flaps of skin, which themselves are starting to turn black. Unless his witcher's body has a last line of defence for purifying the blood, it's a death sentence.

"Hang in there, witcher," she whispers gently as she touches his cheek, shocked by the heat radiating from his skin. She tilts his chin just slightly to allow her to dispense a few drops of the tincture onto his tongue, and hopes it will be enough.  Geralt gives a soft moan.

Checking the pitcher she'd left earlier on the nightstand, Annette sees it's empty. Not a drop of water remains in the bottom, the metal bone dry as if it's been stood there abandoned for hours. She prays she didn't make it back too late. With the fever setting in, it's more vital than ever that he drinks enough.

With her own mouth turning dry, Annette leans in and gently covers the wound again with the sheets. "I need to go get something to clean this, okay?" she mutters softly. "And something for you to drink. Don't die while I'm gone." She hates to leave him on his own, but it's not like there's much choice.

The maid moves as quickly as she's able, returning not five minutes later with a fresh pitcher of water and a bowl, a stack of clean cloths and towels, a sewing kit, a bowl of garlic and burdock root from the kitchens, and a bottle of vodka. She sets down her equipment by the bed and goes to fetch a stool from by the fireplace at the opposite end of the room. Then, she lights a candle and sets to work.

Geralt's lucidity drifts in and out as she drenches a cloth in alcohol and begins to wipe away the mess. "My father will kill me if he finds out I wasted vodka, so don't die," she says, and he seems to hear and understand.

"Could use a dr'nk," he mumbles, the words slurred.

She's relieved to hear his voice. There's recognition in the yellow slits of his eyes as he cracks them open, and she tries to give a reassuring smile. "Here," she offers, bringing the bottle to his lips.

He sips at it, lips chapped and dry where they close around the neck, then he gives a grunt. "In the chest," he murmurs as she pulls the bottle away. "Sh'd be a potion vial."

She frowns for a moment in confusion, then twists in her seat as she realises he means the travel chest by the window. Annette reaches over to it and starts to rifle through the contents, though before long she comes across a small glass bottle not far from the top. She figures it's what he means. "This?"

"Mm." Speaking is clearly no easy feat. "'Healing potion. Last one. Sh'd help."

She uncorks it for him then pours it into his mouth as she helps him drink. The bitter scent of it catches her off guard, and she watches in fascination as the muscles in his throat work to swallow it down in one gulp. Almost without thinking, her hand gently strokes his hair as his head sinks back into the pillow, his eyelids fluttering.

"Annette," he whispers, and it seems like he's making a great effort to say it clearly. "Thank you."

The maid sucks in a breath. "Don't thank me yet, witcher."

He's mostly silent as she continues to work, and if it weren't for the occasional grunt of pain or the intermittent shivers that wrack his body, she'd assume he'd long since lost consciousness. _Geralt_ , she thinks, and her eyes frequently flit back to his face as she struggles to remember where she's heard the name before. It doesn't come back to her.

The garlic and burdock she mashes into a crude paste, but there's no time to do a more refined job as she hurries to combat the sepsis. By the time Annette finishes up cleaning the wound and applying the salve, he's fallen almost completely still. It's unnerving, but in a way, she's grateful for his unawareness as she dips the needle into vodka and begins to push a thread through his skin. The blackened, dead flesh she cuts away with the fabric scissors, jaw clenched in silent apology as it elicits a faint whimper, then begins to stitch closed the edges of healthy pink skin beneath. After that, there's nothing.

She leaves just enough space with the sutures for any remaining pus to drain away, then sits at his bedside and waits.

The fever continues to rage. While Annette watches, Geralt falls into a fitful sleep. Her eyes never stray far from his face, save to his throat and chest as she dabs a cool towel against his skin, watching for the rise and fall of his breathing and the thrum of a pulse in the hollow above his collarbone. Both are present, sometimes, accompanied by feverish shivers and the harsh rasp of air entering his lungs. Other times, he's so still it makes the panic rise up in her chest, until she leans over him and feels the whisper of his breath on her cheek. Those are the times she prays. To what deity, she isn't sure, but she pleads with whatever god will listen that she won't be sitting here beside a corpse come morning.

Last time she’d kept a vigil like this, her mother hadn’t made it.

The candlelight flickers. As time passes her eyelids grow heavy, and she forces herself to look at the witcher more closely to keep herself awake. She watches the sweat beading on his forehead, droplets creeping over his brow to trickle down the bridge of his nose. She studies his lips: bowed, pale, beginning to crack where soft puffs of breath dry the skin. Twice, her fingers reach out to hover over the scar on his cheek, before retracting shyly and instead busying themselves with wringing out a damp towel to press against his neck.

The third time, her curiosity gets the better of her. A solitary fingertip traces the red canyon carved in his flesh, marvelling at the texture of it, the reddened skin harder, almost waxy as she runs her finger towards the hollow of his eye socket.

Geralt moans, stirring in his sleep, and Annette snatches her hand back.

Several anxious minutes pass before she can bring herself to touch him again. His chest shudders, and she mutters soothing noises into his ear as one hand presses a damp cloth to his brow while the other comes to rest on his breast. Beneath her touch she feels the rough scar tissue corrupting smooth skin, myriad punctures and slashes and tears leaving behind jagged lines and gnarled craters. Deeper still beneath that, there's the erratic, frantic thrusting of his heart. It feels to her like a trapped bird, wings fluttering valiantly, yet feebly, a desperate last bid for survival as its strength fades. Squeamish, she can't keep her hand pressed to his heart for long.

They say witchers are cold and heartless. In that moment, Annette's all too keenly aware that they aren't.


	4. The Morning

Grey light is beginning to creep through the cracks between the shutters when Geralt wakes. The bedsheets cling to his skin, sticky with blood and the residue of his own sweat, but the pain's gone. His mouth may feel like a parched desert, lips sore and cracked, but there's no pounding headache. No fever; no sharp stabbing at his temples. Just a lingering lethargy as he cracks his eyelids open and tries to swallow around the cloying thickness in his throat.

"Annette?"

She's still there, perched on a stool by the bed, head drooping and eyes closed. Her mousy hair hangs limp about her face, grease clinging to roots. "Mm?" It takes her a moment to react to the sound of his voice. Her eyelids flutter, as if roused from an uneasy sleep, then, laboriously, she lifts her head. "Geralt?" He can see her pupils reacting as it takes her a heartbeat longer to focus. "You're awake."

"More than you, it seems." His voice sounds thin, not like himself. "How long have you been there?"

"All night, I think." She rubs her bleary eyes with the back of her hand, stifling a yawn.

"You sleep at all?"

"Not really." She ignores his concern, reaching out to feel his forehead with her palm while her other hand grasps his wrist. "You had me worried, you know. Glad you're back with me." There's a small but unmistakable smile tugging at her lips.

He doesn't move as he lets her check his temperature and pulse, convincing herself that his fever truly has broken, then she sighs in relief. "How's the leg?"

Testing it, Geralt flexes his knee, rolling his leg from the hip as his hand creeps down to gingerly inspect the wound. Firm pressure from his fingertips makes him wince, but a light enough brush with his palm passes without pain or bleeding. There's a coarse texture beneath his hand, which he puts down to scabbing. "Healed enough, I think. I'll be alright now," he replies, voice a little stronger. "You should get to bed."

"Can't," she mumbles, rising from the stool and rubbing at her eyes again. "Sun's coming up. I've got the breakfast shift."

"Annette…" There's a trace of annoyance in his voice, creeping in despite his gratitude. He hadn't wanted that. "You shouldn't wear yourself out on my account. It's not your job."

"Yeah, well. Too late now." She picks up the woollen shawl she'd left at the foot of the bed and pulls it on, tugging it tight about her shoulders. "Besides, I'm used to it."

She says it flippantly, as if she thinks it makes her sound more grown up, but all he sees are her sluggish movements and the way her eyes are struggling to stay open. "Alright. But don't come back here to watch over me again. I won't die sleeping it off."

Annette pulls a face, and he wonders if he sounded ungrateful. "At least let me change the bedsheets. It stinks in here."

"Doesn't bother me."

"That actually _is_ my job, Geralt. I'd only be doing it anyway. Besides, your blood's all over them." She pouts, jaw clenched firmly in a way that reminds him of Ciri. It's hopeless to argue.

"Fine." Geralt heaves a sigh ands rolls onto his back, shutting his eyes as the gash in his thigh gives a twinge. "Just take care of yourself first."

"Always do." He hears her footsteps pad softly across the floor and the clicking of the latch as she lets herself out.

Only once she's gone does he get up the energy to pull back the covers and blearily inspect the wound by sight. Something pangs in his chest as he realises the roughness he'd felt is a line of careful, skilled stitches she's put in by hand.

* * *

Geralt's dozing when, as promised, she's back a few hours later, carrying the fresh pile of sheets plus his clothes back from the laundry in a hamper hoisted on her hip.

"You think you can get up now you're feeling better?" she prompts, setting down the hamper and offloading the fresh linen on top of the dresser. "Just for a minute. I promise I won't look."

He blinks a couple of times to clear the sleep from his eyes as she politely turns away, though he can practically still see the pout through the back of her head. He goes steady, trying not to aggravate the tender wound on his hip as he rolls and sits himself at the edge of the bed. The pile of his clothes she's left out for him is out of reach, but his own garments from the travel chest are close, requiring just a slight stretch on his good side. He finds a clean pair of underwear and stands to pull them on. It's more uncomfortable to navigate his injured thigh than expected.

"You're peeking," Geralt says after a moment, his amusement refusing to stay off his face. "I can tell."

Annette splutters. "What...I...I'm not…" He still has his back to her. "How?"

"Don't forget I'm a witcher. I can hear your heartbeat." He glances back over his shoulder to see her blushing furiously, quickly averting her gaze. "It just sped up."

"I'm sorry. It's just…"

Decent, he leans across to pick up his only remaining shirt, then turns back to her. "The scars?"

"Yeah. I don't mean to stare, but...I can't help it."

"You aren't the first." He can still feel her gaze wandering over the marks in question as he pulls on the garment, practically able to pinpoint the moment the spell breaks and her attention returns to his face again. She seems almost awed. Intimidated, even, and something in his chest aches with the realisation.

"How many times has this happened to you?" Annette asks quietly.

"A lot. Not always been lucky enough to have such a good nurse, though."

"No?"

"Sometimes I can get to a medic or a healer. Other times I have to deal with it myself."

"No wonder they look so terrible." She says it unabashedly, as though it hasn't even occurred to her that it might be a sore subject. He finds it refreshing.

"Anyway. Bed's all yours," he says with a shrug.

Annette strips down the mattress and fits the new bedspread with the practiced efficiency of someone who's spent most of her years as an inn maid. Too many, for someone with so few to start with. She fusses around trying to make it neat and presentable before Geralt waves her off, then wrinkles her nose as she dumps the soiled sheets in the hamper.

"That bad?" he remarks sheepishly.

"I've seen worse. Cleaned up piss, shit and a whole host of other bodily fluids before. A bit of sweat and blood doesn't bother me."

He's torn between hoping she means that and hoping she doesn't.

Annette watches as he sits down on the side of the bed again, his shoulders slumping as the fatigue of standing just a few minutes catches up with him. "You gonna sleep it off now? You look more exhausted than I am," she says.

He looks up at her with a sceptical eyebrow raised. "I doubt that. You looked in a mirror recently?"

"Have you?"

"Touché." He lies back, a heavy weight beginning to tug on his eyelids the instant his head hits the pillow. He thinks he ought to say something else, but as the fresh sheets begin to mold comfortably around him, it immediately becomes much harder to think about moving at all.

"Sleep well, Geralt," he hears Annette say in the distance.

It's only when his awareness is penetrated by the sound of the door closing he realises he forgot to even say thank you.

* * *

Annette's surprised to see Geralt at breakfast the next morning. Not even _at_ breakfast, she soon realises. He's donned his armour and is dressed for the road, standing by the door as if waiting to go. There's colour - albeit very little - in his cheeks, and she wouldn't know to look at him the dire straits he'd been in not two days before.

She sets down the tray of dishes she's carrying and crosses to him. "Geralt. You're leaving." Her face shows both relief and disappointment.

"I'm better," he says, and his voice sounds stronger than she's gotten used to hearing it. Richer. Less strained. "Witchers heal fast. Didn't seem right to impose on your hospitality any longer. Here." He reaches for his belt then holds something out to her, and she sees that it's two pouches of coin. "I stayed a little longer than intended. This one's for the room," he explains, handing her the first. "And this one's for you."

She accepts them both and glances down, fidgeting to hide the fact a blush is spreading across her cheeks. "Thank you. I'll pass them on to my Pa."

"No." He says it firmly, and she glances up. "Your Pa didn't stay by my bedside the whole night making sure I didn't die. You keep that one."

Her blush is growing brighter. From the weight of it, there must be a hundred crowns in there, at least. "I, uh...what do I do with it?"

"Up to you. Spend it. Save it. Maybe put it towards university; go to Oxenfurt when you're older and learn to be a doctor."

Awkwardly, she glances down again. "I don't know about that."

"Just a thought. I think it would suit you."

The sentiment is kind. Ma used to say she had a healing touch, but even with the coin, Oxenfurt's nothing but a lofty dream. Annette purses her lips and keeps that to herself. "Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

"It's possible. I travel a lot. Might find myself in these parts again."

"Let's hope in better shape next time."

That brings a small smile to his face, and she likes how it looks. "Let's hope."

There's a pause as she wonders how to say goodbye. She knows the proper thing is to stay stoic and wish him well then send him on his way like any other guest, but she can't help herself as she suddenly steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist.

For a moment, Geralt tenses, taken aback. Then his smile widens and he relaxes into it. She's short, barely coming up to his chest, and he drapes an arm over her shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. Ciri used to do this, when she was younger. That was a long time ago.

"Take care of yourself, Geralt," Annette mumbles into his chest before reluctantly stepping away.

"You too, Annette. So long."

As he walks away, he hopes with him gone she'll finally get some rest.

For Annette, with hungry guests and other mundane matters already demanding her attention, sleep is the last thing on her mind.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't included in the original plan for the story, but I've been developing Annette further for other works and I think this supplements her story nicely and explains why she is how she is with Geralt, despite the common prejudice against witchers.

_Southern Temeria_  
_Two years earlier_

“Nettie, pass me the scissors.”

Annette reaches for the fabric scissors lying on the floor and hands them over to her mother, who’s just finished tying off a bandage around the chest of the barely-conscious soldier on the bed between them. The man is young—a boy, really—with a shock of dark hair and olive skin coated in a sheen of sweat. He whimpers softly when the nurse cuts the ends of the bandage and moves on to a less serious gash on his shoulder, slicing away the dead skin from around the edges of the wound. A pile of black armor lies on the floor nearby.

Annette watches her mother work closely. “Ma,” she begins, hesitant to ask the thought on her mind.

“What is it, Nettie?”

“How can you do it? Treat the Nilfgaardian soldiers just the same as you do ours?”

“Because they are the same,” her mother replies patiently, never losing concentration on her task. “They bleed and feel pain as any Temerian, or Aedirnian, or Redanian does.”

“He’s not the same…”

“How do you know that?”

The question catches Annette off guard, as if the answer should be obvious. “He’s an invader!”

“He’s being used to further an invasion. He did not march north on his own orders in search of his own wealth and glory.”

Annette thinks about that. It must be true, she supposes. “But why do you have to do it? Why not some Nilfgaardian nurse?”

“Had your brother found himself wounded and a prisoner of war in Nilfgaard, would you have wished the medics to refuse to treat him simply because that should fall to a Nordling?” Her mother looks up at her this time as she reaches over for a nearby pot of antiseptic ointment.

“No…” Annette replies, considering the implications of that.

“Then who else, Nettie? I treat them all because I must.”

Annette shuffles uncomfortably. She’d thought she was supposed to hate the Nilfgaardian invaders, like any patriotic Temerian, but looking down at the man’s face, it’s hard to feel hatred. He’s just a stranger. “What if he’s the soldier who killed Robert?” she says quietly, searching for a reason.

“And what if Robert had killed a Nilfgaardian soldier whose mother now weeps somewhere because she’ll never see her son again? Would that make your brother a monster?”

“No!” Annette immediately denies, affronted on her brother’s behalf. “Robert was defending his homeland.”

“Robert was following the orders of his lords and commanders, just as this man is. The soldiers of Nilfgaard are no more monsters than the soldiers of Temeria. They’re people just like you and me, Nettie. Human beings that kings and tyrants think they can use as disposable tools to achieve their own ends. But we don’t accept that. We never treat a person as a disposable tool here. We help the sick and wounded, and we treat them all with human dignity.”

“But what if he is a monster?” Annette says anxiously, trying to reconcile her mother’s compassion with her own fear. “What if he enjoys killing people? Maybe he doesn’t have a mother to weep for him because—“

“Shh.” Her mother silences her gently but firmly. “That’s not for you to judge. You don’t know, so you can’t assume. All you know is that this man is hurt and needs help, and we have the means to provide it. So what do we do?”

There’s a pause as Annette thinks carefully about her mother’s words. “We help him,” she says, her voice quiet, but filled with conviction. “Treat every person with human dignity.”

A small, but proud smile curves on her mother's lips. "That's right. Now, go fetch some water and towels, Nettie. We need to bring his fever down.”

Annette does as she’s asked, returning after a few brief minutes to sit by the soldier’s head and tenderly bathe his brow. She watches his breathing, chest straining under the bandages, and hopes she won’t see it still.

The nurse continues to work silently for some time. Annette pays close attention to the way her mother distributes the antiseptic and removes necrotic tissue to halt the spread of infection, though a frown of worry creases her brow. "Pa doesn't like it, you know," the girl says after a while, and her voice betrays her anxiety. "You helping the Nilfgaardians. A lot of the village doesn't like it."

“Your Pa fears for my safety. I know he finds it hard to understand, especially after losing Robert, but I can’t turn my back on my calling.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Annette’s voice is quiet. More than once, she’s had nightmares of what may happen to them should Temeria fall just like their king, and the sight of Nilfgaardian banners still instills in her a feeling of dread.

A beat passes in silence. “I am,” her mother eventually confesses. “But sometimes we’ll be terribly afraid to do the right thing, and we must do it anyway.”

Annette listens, and nods. “Yes, Ma.”

Her mother finishes up cleaning the wound then picks up a needle, offering her daughter a comforting smile. “Come, Nettie. Let me show you how to suture a wound.”


End file.
